


i should have been a pair of ragged claws

by damaraine



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damaraine/pseuds/damaraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the handmaid contemplates her life at its beginning, and when the time comes, the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. inside the green mansion

There was quite a racket kicking up in the house where The Handmaid lived.

But of course, when was there not? Her benefactor, being cosmic in employment and annoying in nature, was always the centre point of some sort of scrape. And when he was not in a scrape, he was in a stitch. Or a situation, or a spot, or a scratch. Really, there were endless possibilities of things starting with S that he had had a hand in, played victim or perpetrator of, and thinking about it made The Handmaid's stomach curdle.

She lay on her green bed in the green house, between her green walls, in her green uniform, staring at the green ceiling and felt as if she was the victim of a poetic children's book, with a thinly veiled lesson on equality or environmental caution hidden within it. Of course, that is what she presumed was out there for wrigglers to read. All of her books had been about genocide, and why it was A-Okay. In fact, her entire childhood had followed the same trend, which is to say, it had been about three minutes long, followed by a half-length summary and a quiz.

All of it made her feel a bit queasy. A little bit green, you could say. She wouldn't, obviously, as she had had her speaking privileges revoked. Honestly, one loose-lipped statement about someone's genitalia (or lack thereof) and you're suddenly being forced into the role of that red headed chick in that thing about little mermaids. _But you aren't a mermaid, there is no prince, nor anyone else, for that matter_ , she told herself. But there was red, running through her veins, and that comforted her. At least something wasn't the colour of bile around here.

She trudged her feet across the green carpet, towards the, wait for it, green door, and opened it a fraction. The scuffle outside, this time, appeared to be a cause of sexual harassment. Her cosmic patron seemed to be offering too many snacks to a shadowy carapacian colleague, overdoing the pleasantries in an attempt to try and connect the non-events in their pants. Well, pant and coat. But she didn't care for technicalities, and neither did the carapacian. She simply wanted to get her coat laundered.

"Scratch, for god's sake, where is that jacket? I've only got a limited amount of time left, you know."

"So, as it happens, does the washing machine. I've no doubt that you'll outlast it, so please, take a seat. I can't imagine that you'll be missing much out of your schedule, which includes ... what now? Taunting surly strangers on the street?"

"Either way, Scratch. It accomplishes more than baking those little cookies you keep trying to swipe me off with."

"One cannot dispute that I am an accomplished host. Those little cookies that you choose to belittle make me an excellent host. And, I'm told, a charming man, to boot."

"One can definitely dispute that you are charming man, Scratch."

"Then 'one' has to wonder how I fooled you."

Ugh. The Handmaid closed the door, hoping that the multiple layers of green paint would muffle the sound of their pseudo-flirting. If that's what it was. Further thought, she concluded, would just turn her green right up from her stomach. Actually, that could be useful. She could blend in with the walls and make her final, great escape. Out through the window, dash through the pines, hair smacking her in the face, victory singing in her breath sort of escape.

Of course, the whole omniscience matter presented an issue with all of it, so The Handmaid stopped thinking. This was a manoeuvre that would prove very useful to her in the coming sweeps, when tasked with such inane things as the destruction of civilisations, assassination of benevolent leaders, the laundering of a certain electric rainbow coat - frivolous things.

She stalked back to her bed, and positioned herself in front of the screen. She had and would spend many a night staring into the panel, observing the craftsman at work. She had been informed of this. A little bit of routine hardly bleakened her future further. Indeed, she found solace diligently scratching away at his work, muttering vengeful things to himself. She was sure that one day, revenge would be wrought on those ungrateful aliens, those insolent stockbrokers, those grieving schlong enthusiastic. She had not been informed of this, but it was what she hoped. She was entitled to a little bit of that, regardless of whether she studied her histories, regardless of whether she had stabbed the visitor with her needles and electrocuted her patron.

The Handmaid was eternally thankful that hope was not a privilege. You could take away breath, you could take away speech, but it would take something much mightier than a midget in a white suit to take away hope.

The Handmaid fell asleep hoping that this was true.


	2. on the vermillion flare

The Handmaid stood beneath skies weighted skies, feet fusing to the vermillion plane. Hair whipped around her face; hydras whispered in her ears. She did not care. For, after many years of sabotage, slaughter, sophism, shooting, shamble, any and all negative nouns in the S category and then some, she was about to greet her reward.

She had done everything in the book. She had done everything she had been told that she would. Civilisations had fallen at her feet; wars had been started at the flick of her wrist, insurrections at the rise of an eyebrow, murders at the rise of a hem. Suffice to say, she'd been busy. There was far more blood on the ground where she trod than on her hands, but that didn't really mean much considering that she was responsible for it anyway.

The wind on the plain, the drones of engines, the murmurs of the enchantment that encased her presented themselves a repetitive track of elevator music. Monarch or no, time waited for no one and The Handmaid's patience was wearing thin. This was the one occasion of her life that would mind missing. Indeed, the fact that this haughty hair extention-ed hierarch had the audacity to miss her death day party sent hammers down the clock quartz that had long since replaced her heart. That was a privilege that she had lost long ago.

Whatever, she told herself. She'd get here eventually. Let her finish her dumb off planet shampoo commercial, she could wait. She would spend her last moments picking dirt of out her nails with her needles if need be. Everything would fall into place. And if not, she could give it a little shove.

The ship dawned on the horizon, its hull a darker red than where they stood. The Monarch was bent over in a rare moment of humanity, perhaps in grief, perhaps because of the weight of her hair. Behind her a thousand black emotions rippled, and on her visage not a single thing could be seen. Whatever had caused the delay - the realisation of the destruction of your entire species and all those relevant emotions does tend to take some time, yes - had made a rapid disappearance.

She set forth at The Handmaid's words, a storm of the seas and skies. As gold plunged into rust, The Handmaid knew that this was how she wished to go.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from a TS Eliot poem, 'The Lovesong of J Alfred Prucock'. as per usual, it bears very little relevance to the story, but if it did then naming these things would be much harder.


End file.
